Chapter Text
The first signs of illness came in the early hours of the morning, that strange fogginess behind the eyes which makes the world look as though it’s wrapped in muslin, as if the air itself were gauzy and impenetrable. I had slept poorly, waking with a throat thickened by soreness and a head made heavy with pressure, but there was no question of remaining in bed. To lose a day’s wages at the firm was to risk dismissal, and dismissal was a risk I could not afford. New York was many things, but kind to the unemployed it was not. I was merely another name on a ledger to them, easily replaceable, and with times as they were, if I was lost to this job, I may not find another.
So I dressed, half-heartedly, with the deliberation of one who measures each gesture by its cost, and stepped outside into the cool morning air. The day was bright, but it burned rather than refreshed, increasing the pounding in my head like a staggering crescendo.
I made my way down the drive, handkerchief pressed discreetly to my nose, toward the small car that had become both my companion and tormentor in these months; the car that promised me the world’s distance while dragging me unresisting through its motions. As I placed a hand on the door handle, I heard a familiar voice call out to me.
“Nick!”
I turned, startled, and there he was: Gatsby himself, immaculate even at such an early hour. He was clad in loose trousers and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, yet despite the casual air of his clothes, he managed to look as elegant as the night I first encountered him. He came down the marble steps of his mansion with a speed and certainty that betrayed his alarm, coming to my side as if honing in on a beacon.
“You can’t possibly be going to work,” he declared, as though the very idea were obscene.
“I can and I must,” I replied, but the words came thick, sluggish with congestion. “I sound worse than I feel,” I feebly justified.
“You’re ill,” he said. “Terribly ill. I could see it from my balcony. You’re pale. You’re-” He broke off, studying me as though I were some fragile object that had been placed unexpectedly in his care. “You mustn’t go.”
“I don’t have the liberty of staying home,” I told him, fumbling for the ignition key, my mind glossing over the fact that he’d been watching me, lest I read too far into it and lead myself to believe that I might be the center of such a fantastic man’s attention. “If I miss a day, I risk everything.”
Gatsby’s rosy lips drew into a tight frown, as if he hadn’t considered the merits of the working man. Whatever business Gatsby conducted, I was still in the dark about, but it was clear that he had no need to arrive at an office and clock in. Perhaps he didn’t understand what I was facing.
“I can’t let you go,” he reiterated, grabbing my arm. His grasp was firm, but not so in a manner that might hurt me.
“Gatsby,” I croaked, the syllables rough. “I really can’t-”
“I’ll call your boss,” he stated firmly. “I’ll make sure you’re not fired. I’ll pay him. Or I- I’ll pay you what you might have earned today. Anything. You’re not going to work and that’s final.”
I blinked at him, dazed by how firm he was being in his concern for my health. Still, I couldn’t deny that the offer was tempting. I had no doubt in my mind, because when Gatsby made a promise, he’d see to it that it was followed through.
“I suppose… if you truly don’t mind…” I trailed off, leaning against the side of my car. Knowing I wouldn’t have to drive into the city and go to work, my body was beginning to give up the ghost of pretending I didn’t want to collapse right into bed.
“Of course,” he said gently, wrapping a warm arm around my shoulders. “Now let's get you inside.”
I leaned into him, figuring he’d help me back to my cottage where I could shut the blinds and try to sleep it off, but instead, he surprised me by turning towards his mansion and leading me towards those marble steps. I might have protested, but all thoughts of doing so died in my throat the moment his thumb traced a gentle circle against the fabric of my blazer. His touch was like a shooting star in the night, leaving a blazing trail that seared into me, never to be forgotten until dawn.
My mind settled into a haze as I absentmindedly let him lead me inside, going up the stairs and down the rows of hallways that seemed to stretch into infinity. Without the party guests here, it seemed almost larger than life in its emptiness. The ceilings seemed to brush the heavens and the mirrors at the end of each hall made me feel as though I were in a labyrinth.
Gatsby opened one of the doors and led me inside a lavishly decorated bedroom. Through the window, I could see my small cottage, dwarfed in comparison to Gatsby’s residence. I must have left the light in my sickly haze on because there was a faint yellow glow from my window, but I couldn’t be bothered to fret about it as Gatsby seated me on the bed and slipped my blazer from my shoulders. I looked up at him with a weary smile, and he met my gaze, blue eyes filled with warmth that touched my heart and wrapped around it in tendrils, refusing to let go.
“You’ll be alright, Old Sport,” he murmured, carefully leaning in to unfasted my tie and pop the buttons of my shirt. “I’ll fetch some medicine and you’re welcome to rest here as long as you need.”
My mouth parted, but he seemed to read my thoughts. “I’ll call your boss as well. Don’t fret.”
“Thank you,” I said softly as he turned away from me, rifling through a drawer and removing a set of silken pajamas that looked more extravagant than even my finest suit.
“Do you need my assistance?” He asked, tilting his head inquisitively.
I likely could have managed on my own, but loathe as I am to admit it, I felt selfish in the moment. Being on the receiving end of Gatsby’s attention felt as though the sun had chosen to shine only for you and I was not eager to give that up. “I’d appreciate it.”
He stepped forward and my mind shifted back into that soft haze as he helped me slip out of my work clothes and into the offered pajamas. My head felt as though it was floating above my body, but I couldn’t pinpoint if that was from the beginnings of a fever or from the gentle brushes of his fingertips against my skin.
Soon enough, he carefully reclined me against the pillows, tucking the duvet up to my chest. His hand hovered over me for a moment before he seemed to make a decision and brushed it through my hair. My eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. He spoke something, but my head felt underwater and I was unable to make out the words as I drifted into a doze.
When I awoke, I was unaware of the hour. Someone had shut the blinds and the room was dark except for the dim glow of a lamp on the dresser. My throat felt scratchy and raw, my eyelids heavy as I struggled to keep them open. I pushed myself up on my elbows, glancing around, and there he was: Gatsby, seated on the edge of the bed. Had he just been sitting in the dark?
“Hello,” he spoke softly as if frightened to shatter the moment. He grabbed a glass of water off the bedside table and handed it to me, along with two small pills, both which I gratefully accepted, downing the pills with a large sip of water. I must have slept with my mouth open from congestion and it suddenly occurred to me that I must look like a mess. My cheeks colored slightly as I attempted to smooth down my hair, and Gatsby clearly noticed.
“No need to fuss, Old Sport. It’s only me.”
“Exactly,” I retorted good-naturedly, taking another sip of water. “I’d prefer to not look like a mess in front of you.”
“I’m flattered, but really, I don’t mind,” he insisted. He seemed almost enraptured by my humanity. Perhaps a man who looked like he should be walking amongst angels might appreciate the chance to come down to Earth everyone once in a while, I thought absentmindedly.
“What time is it?” I questioned.
“Afternoon,” he replied. “Are you hungry?”
I pursed my lips in consideration. The illness gripping me had stripped most of my appetite from me, but I knew that nutrition would do me good, seeing as I hadn’t eaten in the morning. “Marginally.”
“Good,” he smiled. “I already prepared something for you.”
I watched as he left, and within a few minutes, he had returned with a bowl of soup, steam rising in billows off the top. He sat back on the edge of the bed and held out the bowl to me. I gratefully accepted it, but my mind hinged on how our hands brushed against one another as the bowl passed in the exchange. All worries of my work had escaped my mind. At this moment, the only thing I could think of was not work, not even sickness, but Gatsby.
I picked up the spoon and brought a sip to my lips. The warmth of it slid down my throat, filling my stomach with a sense of comfort. “It’s marvelous,” I hummed. “You must thank your kitchen staff for me.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t delegate this task to the staff, Old Sport. I made it myself.”
I choked on the second spoonful I’d been swallowing when he said that. His eyes widened in alarm as he grabbed the bowl with one hand and patted my back with the other. I coughed and sputtered for a few moments before finally catching my breath with a wheeze. “You- You made it?” I finally stammered.
“Yes. Is that so surprising?” He questioned. “I’ve picked up the standard domestic skills in my time.”
It wasn’t the fact that he knew how to cook that surprised me. Gatsby could have told me he knew how to play water polo while simultaneously reading Arabic literature and juggling and I would have believed him. What surprised me was that he’d gone through the trouble of doing something so domestic just for me. My mind conjured up a self-indulgent image of Gatsby in his vast kitchen, an apron tied around his waist, humming absentmindedly as he diced carrots. For me.
“Thank you,” was all I could manage to say. “You really didn’t need to go through all the trouble.”
“No trouble,” he insisted. “I told my staff that I’d prefer to look after you myself. I want you to feel comfortable here.”
He always knew just what to say to put my mind at ease. His face seemed to search mine and although I didn’t know what he was looking for, I almost hoped that he found it. To him, I was happy to be an open book. I wanted him to read every last word, to know me the way I wished to know him.
He removed a silken handkerchief from his pocket and reached out towards me. Time slowed to a glacial crawl as he used his free hand to cup my cheek. I was frozen, watching as he used the handkerchief to carefully wipe under my nose. I hadn’t even realized it was running and it made me feel like a child, but somehow, I didn’t feel as ashamed as I ought to have been.
I sniffled, but it only succeeded in causing a prickle in the back of my sinuses. My eyes fluttered partially shut and I released a harsh sneeze, thankfully directly into the handkerchief. Rather than pull away, he simply rubbed his thumb against my cheek.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you,” I murmured through the congestion.
“Blow your nose,” he encouraged, still holding.
I felt rather odd about it, but I wasn’t one for objecting to anything that Jay Gatsby requested, so I did. He held steady, and the only thing I was able to focus on was that hand on my cheek, thumb moving in microscopic circles.
“There we are,” he murmured as if I’d actually accomplished something. “Better?”
I gave a hum of acknowledgement as he finally drew the silken handkerchief away. I was sure he could see how my face had warmed at his actions, but he was polite enough to refrain from any commentary. Instead, he picked up the soup he’d placed aside and offered it to me once more. I accepted it, repeating that brush from earlier, and continued to eat. The house was so silent that I could hear every rustle of the blanket, every breath that I drew, every soft noise he made as if he wanted to say something but hesitated before the words slipped free.
Eventually, he filled the silence, speaking idly to me while I ate. It was trivial matters, the weather and such, but his voice was soothing and I found my lips curling up into a smile as he joked about some of the antics that had occurred at last week’s party. His voice was as melodic as ever like the plucking of a fine harp, each word a note in a rhapsody that I wished to drown in. The soup drained faster than I realized and before I could say anything further, I felt my eyelids weighing themselves shut.
He carefully took the bowl from me and brushed the back of a delightfully cool hand against my cheek. “Rest,” he murmured.
And I did.